


... And I'm Feelin Good

by JamieAvenBell



Series: Ineffable Songbook [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Dancing and Singing, Demon in love, F/M, Female Crowley (Good Omens), Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Idiots in Love, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, No beta we fall like Crowley, Post-Apocalypse, Slow Burn, cottage life, demon in denial, identy crisis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:17:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamieAvenBell/pseuds/JamieAvenBell
Summary: Demons are forbidden to sing. Still, Crowley tries and stops and tries again. There's a song swelling in his throat, a new life to begin.Follow-up to “Fly Me To The Moon”. Or at very last, Aziraphale watches his demon sing.





	... And I'm Feelin Good

**Author's Note:**

> I'm probably having too much fun dipping into Crowleys douts, anxiety, and Feelings. Well, he is my emotional support snake, so deal with me. ;)
> 
> Personally, I prefer [Michael Bublé's](https://youtu.be/Edwsf-8F3sI) version but I assume Crowley would sound more like [Muse](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2nZ8wcpsiQw/)

Anthony J. Crowley was a lot of things. First, a demon, one of the Fallen; kicked out of heaven for his curiosity. Second, he was gender-fluid, he liked his corporation to be male and female, although he tended to be male. It was always easier to navigate through history by having and being a dick. Still, being a woman was always a tempting job. More delicate, more slithery ... 

And third, he was madly in love with the one entity of the whole universe he should have not fallen for.

There’s a fourth, but Crowley does everything in his might to avoid talking about _singing_.

Back in the ancient times, Crowley could get up and leave when somebody started a group chanting, he could ignore choirs or operas (except for Aziraphale’s invitations). But in recent times radios plop up like mushrooms, they grow like weed when they become portable. Smartphones can blast music and as much as he likes the procrastinating effect of YouTube, Spotify and all the like these are his torture.

Music is everywhere. Music surrounds him like sunlight. He loves it, he basks in the atmosphere of a thriving rock concert. But he hates it, too. He’s not allowed to sing anymore. It’s a reminder of heaven, his ability to sing went up in flames. He has lost it. Or so he thinks.

Hence, when the apocalypse knocks on their doors and Crowley and Aziraphale decide to influence little Warlock equally, the nanny revels in the solemn estate. It’s always quiet and peaceful and she’s allowed to perform lullabies. It’s not singing, she says to herself, it’s performing rhythmic … soothing … rhymes … well, it’s hypnotizing a child to sleep sooner.

If anyone asks her why she likes staying at the estate the only reason is her female body. Crowley’s been stuck as a man far too long. It’s neither the loophole to hypnotize children with her voice nor spending time with Aziraphale. Staying as close as they could get. Which is, in fact, much closer than they’ve got in the last centuries. They were always so busy, always someplace elsewhere, they fought, they ignored each other - but for a couple of years, they were stuck while discreetly stopping World’s End.

Crowley would never admit but she likes female clothing, too. Her ‘nanny get-up’ does not reveal anything, she’s very properly covered up. At the same time, it reveals everything that the imagination needs(*), every dip, and curve, her slim hips, her narrow back. Buried deep within Crowley likes how Aziraphale’s gaze roams discreetly over her form. She likes even more how he defends her when some of the other staff tries their advances. For a short time, they live in a BBC period drama and she is the little middle-class working lady that is charmed by a very fine gentleman … well in disguise.

They’re dancing around each other, sneaking in the late hours since neither of them needs sleep. They’ve perfected sneaking through the centuries, being a snake and spending time with said snake does that to you. And no-one discovers their late-night meet-ups, their coincidental encounters in the garden or the hushed talks they share. If someone does, they keep silent about it.

For a little while, they are two different people, strangers, you might say, not an angel and a demon. Crowley loves watching Aziraphale gardening as much as scolding him for doing it all wrong. “You need to place them somewhere sunny, but don’t forget to water them plenty. Jeez, angel, the moment you leave this place everything will wither. Did you trim the hedges? Or should I have a good talking to them?” (In the background the hedges shuffle into their perfect form.) She loves Aziraphale’s patience with her, she loves that they spent evenings somewhere hidden in the estate, with a good bottle of wine and Aziraphale reading out loud for her. “Why are we reading all those nineteenth-century books for children?”, she inquires one night. 

“To be fairly balanced Godparents?” His angel shrugs and looks away from her.

* * *

Crowley knows that everything changes. There’s no ‘always’ for a demon. She realizes when Warlock grows up, learns to walk, to run, to read, to ask questions. Change is inevitable. She hates change but is bound to the very concept. As the years rush by, she’s feeling more and more anxious. She’s content and happy to stay at Aziraphale’s side but it seems to be her very own torture assigned from God: Everything she holds dear, eventually, she loses.

Especially, since it’s Aziraphale who pushes her over the edge by miracling a stupid radio into existence. “It’s nice to listen to some music while working, don’t you think?”, he asks innocently.

No, it’s not, she wants to shout, to remind him that hearing soft songs everywhere she goes is … but she does not. She endures. As long as she can.

“ _Birds flying high, you know how I feel_ ”, on a sunny day she starts to mumble unintentionally. The song dances with the light breeze while she’s watching young Warlock play, the summer’s warmth enveloping her like a lover’s hug. “ _Sun in the sky, you know how I feel_.”

In the background Aziraphale is murdering some rose bushes she will tend to later on and convince them to bloom beautifully, all the best for her angel. “ _Breeze driftin' on by, you know how I feel …_ ”

“… _and I’m feeling-_ -” She stops. She stops before that last word slips over her tongue. Fear of being burned deeply rooted. She’s not … It’s long over and no … she’s not. Besides this feeling, this peace is not meant for eternity. There is no forever after in a demon’s story, it never had been there in the first place. Change and torture are the two constant forces in her life. The only thing that never left was Aziraphale, but Crowley won’t challenge destiny.

“Feeling good?”, Aziraphale continues, strolling up to her.

She bites her lips and is very tempted to throw her glass of lemonade into his happy face.

“Didn’t know demons still sing,” he continues to chat. “I always assumed that you’ll find it a touch too close to her grace. Since heaven has a lot of choirs and division which sing all day and …”

“Did you expect me to screech?”, she spits it out like venom although she didn’t want to lash out to him. Never to him. “Or maybe screaming as if I would like to torture you?”

Aziraphale is taken aback and takes a moment to reconsider his reply. She can sense it, she can see it in his slight frown. “You have a lovely voice, my dear. It’s a pity I’ve never heard you sing before.”

“That’s a l…” The problem is her angel does not lie. At least, never to her.

Heavenly blue eyes look at her, the fondest smile grazes Aziraphale’s lips. “Would you mind to continue?”

“Yes, I would.” Crowley would never sing in front of him. His angel sense would probably pick on the sentiments. The love hidden, the yearning for a life unattainable. Peace. A garden. A home. And then, Aziraphale would blame himself when Heaven smote Crowley for this sin. Blasphemous demon. Instant kill.

“Oh, I won’t push you. But, Crowley, I would really like to listen to you again.”

“What?” She stands up from the comfy bench, gathering Warlock’s toys. “Tired of Gabriel’s and the other Archangel’s heavenly kumbaya?”

“Since you’re asking me. Yes. Maybe, I do not share your taste in music, but your voice is fantastic, almost …”

“Stop it,” she does not look him in the eyes, “Let’s get inside, it’s getting dark and cold …”

Aziraphale does not mention that it’s hardly noon and gets back to maim rose bushes.

* * *

Somehow, they’ve averted the apocalypse. They stood on the brink of Armageddon, everything seemed lost, but they’ve made it. Tickety-boo, as his angel would say. No more Upstairs and Downstairs to report to, no more rules to follow.

As long as it will last. Change was persistent as a wine stain on white linen. 

Crowley tries to relax. He is drinking with Aziraphale, joking, celebrating – heck, even confessing that they both influenced the other for something … more. Their conversation is flowing, easy, like a river traveling down to the sea.

Myriads of temptations and beneficiation done – but one child held the power to end the world. He would laugh over the irony, but Crowley refuses to think that his life was futile. Worthless. He likes to think that maybe he had tempted one of Deidre Young’s former relatives when his angel probably watched over the father’s lineage or maybe all that balancing of their powers developed a batch of perfectly boring, very human, very British people. Pish-posh proper but bastards inside.

His angel dines through the whole dessert menu and they exchange a soft “To the world”. It could have been a picture-perfect happy ending. But the piano guy at the Ritz is fucking playing that one song. The one song Crowley is bothered by, stuck in his head. _Fish in the sea, you know how I feel_ , Crowley can’t help thinking. His foot is taping with the rhythm, too. _River running free, you know how I feel. Blossom on a tree, you know how I feel_ …

After his Fall Crowley stopped singing. He was not allowed to, was he? Maybe he was afraid of his new demonic voice. He misses it though. He loves music, humans were so creative and ...

„So … you’re good now?“ Aziraphale quips. He watches his every move and twitch. Damn that snake hips, shuffling to a song is like breathing for Crowley.

“Angel.” He forces himself to still. Demons don’t sing.

“I remember how you almost pushed me through a wall for assuming that you’re …”

Crowley scoffs. He takes the bait gladly, at least he stops thinking about singing. “First, I’ve pressed you against a wall for a lot of different reasons.”

“Oh, you have?” The angel raises an eyebrow. Bastard. Demons are the sly ones, but Aziraphale is doing a damn fine job nowadays.

“Yessss.” The hiss is unintended.

“Let me guess?” He takes a bite of his cake, enjoys the taste, the texture … whatever. All Crowley can think about is how those plumb limps enclose the fork and … “Pent-up frustrations?”

“You’re mocking me,” Crowley almost growls.

“Just a bit. But I’m sorry if I crossed a line. I cherish our connection”, Aziraphale confesses, “you are very important to me. Just all of our … _adventures_ make it so easy to tease you.”

Crowley’s ears are ringing. He’s dreaming, isn’t he? There’s no way this was real. He clearly remembers the angel shouting “I don’t even like you!”, remembers the pain he endured at that damned bandstand. And now … Aziraphale was confessing, it counted as a confession, didn’t it?

Something is swelling inside him. Maybe it’s hope; maybe it those blasted lyrics he wants to shout.

“Second, I’m not good. I’m feeling good, maybe, I don't know... Semantics, angel.”

“That’s your specialty, isn’t it? All of your wiles for the last two hundred years consisted of special semantics.”

Suddenly, Crowley takes a leap of faith and lays his hand right next to his angel’s; fingers barely brushing. It’s either swim or drown. “Yes, semantics. You’re such a literate person and never got the hints.”

Aziraphale moves and meets him halfway. “Oh, I did, my darling, I did. But now I’m allowed to react without the ever-constant fear that I might lose you.”

Crowley grips his angel’s hand tightly. Promising to Go-, to Sa- to every force in the universe, every star, animal, being, every atom of Her creation that he will never let it go.

* * *

_Dragonfly out in the sun you know what I mean, don't you know_  
_Butterflies all havin' fun, you know what I mean_  
_Sleep in peace when day is done, that's what I mean_

There are only a few news circulating Tadfield, the people living there enjoy their quiet. Still, if something happens, the gossip mill is turning at light speed. Therefore, it’s no miracle that most of the village know overnight that the cottage on the brink of town has been sold to some Londoners. “Please, we don’t need yuppies and over sophisticated chai latte vegan yoga couples with their 0.65 scores of children”, some of the townfolk whispers.

“They have lots and lots of money though.” The whispering continues as the craftsmen and builders arrive in early spring. The restoration of the cottage begins new wiring, fresh paint, solar panels, an odd style of sleek furniture (a gigantic bed made for at least ten people) but a desk and sofas which could belong into some BBC period drama. Boxes, lots and lots of boxes. But everything is spotless and damn fine, no preservation orders are bent or broken, there is miraculously no noise pollution. Although a massive greenhouse is built from the ground.

Curious villagers take first attempts to become familiar and tell stories of a garden way bigger than they remember and a kind of ageless, but very attractive Mr. Crowley who moved in first so that he has a head start with the plants. “Your wife must be lucky”, they praise and shut up immediately since Mr. Crowley starkly points out that he’s the lucky one to have his _angel_ at his side.

The even more curious villagers report that the new neighbor is somehow attached to the Youngs, young Adam calling him his “Uncle Anthony” with a crooked smile. Plus, Mr. Crowley calls Ms. Device teasingly “witch girl” which is surely a very urban or very American endearment.

 _And this old world is a new world_  
_And a bold world_  
_For me_  
_Ah for me_

The cottage is particularly silent. There’s no loud music blaring, there’s no atrocious gathering with other loud, rude Londoners. No music drifting through the garden but dancing. Soon, Mr. Crowley is discovered dancing to silent tunes – pricey Bluetooth headphones over his ears. He dances while walking, he dances while gardening, he’s gliding and wiggling and slinking very elegantly that some ladies start to swoon. But he never sings out loud. Not only once.

Several weeks in, even more boxes arrive accompanied by Mr. Fell. Somehow a new spot for an antiquarian bookshop on the sunniest corner of the town square appears no one ever bothered to rent before. No one in Tadfield believes that the shop will survive, no one collects old books until Mr. Crowley points out that most of the sales happen online. But his angel is delighted with every customer who wants to read if they take good care of the books. A couple of weeks pass and Tadfield realizes that they have a very fine library with a very strict librarian now.

The dancing and silent singing continues, only one thing drastically changes. Behind Mr. Crowley, his friend/husband/lover/Tadfield’s still gathering the courage to ask/… Mr. Fell watches him with the most besotted smile on earth. In June, the speeches of one very nice wedding celebration even end with: “We hope the dear groom will always look at his wife like Mr. Fell looks at Mr. Crowley … especially when the latter one does not notice.”

They’re odd but lovely.

* * *

Crowley can’t sleep.

It’s so peaceful and beautiful and calm he expects that someone, anyone will come to Tadfield, crash down into their _Little Eden_ and destroy everything they’ve worked for. Trample down the flowers, set the cottage aflame and separate him from Aziraphale. This time for real.

Months have passed since the Armageddon’t, Crowley is more or less sure that Up and Below will not hunt them down, maybe meddle a little, but … he’s still pacing through the garden. The trees and plants are shifting in the night breeze, not out of fear but more like a gentle encouragement. His angel is way too nice to them all the time.

Adam is fine, too. A bit bored at school, impatiently waiting for summer’s break, but perfectly human. With a little extra considering his otherworldly powers – but what would you expect from a half-demon? Full demon with a bit of human? And probably some residue angelic power since all demons were angels once. But the boy trusts Aziraphale and likes to argue with Crowley and the Them somehow wriggled into their retirement life and ...

Crowley is restless as hell.

He’s not an angel anymore, it’s been six millennia since his last status update. Six millennia where he perfected his new identity. Crawley settled into Crowley.

But he’s not a full-fledged demon either. He has gathered too many enemies, Aziraphale taking a dip in holy water for him or not.

Somehow, Aziraphale easily processed that the good ones weren’t exactly the good ones. He takes their own side as a refugee, “My dear, I am an angel of Earth and the human kin now.” But Crowley ponders and fears and takes late-night strolls through their _Little Eden_ ; watching the cherry and apple trees, checking on the vegetables and encouraging the flowers to bloom better.

He’s still thinking about this new era. Who is he? Who will he be? The shoes of Anthony J. Crowley do not fit anymore.

Jeramiel. Six thousand years he carried proof of his first life within his name. A proof that binds him to an existence long forgotten. The eight Archangel, the one they pushed out of heaven and tried very hard to get rid of off in every script and … Well, tried. But as forgetful and fleeting humans are, the written word is not. Crowley is still furious that God-forsaken Michael has taken over his achievements within the official history.

Still. Jeramiel meant _he will obtain mercy of God_.

Did he? He seems to be part of the ineffable plan. Honestly, She could have given him a warning before kicking him out. Six thousand years thinking that his name was a bad joke on his very own expense. Who would forgive a demon? Who would show mercy to a demon? Only one kind soul of the whole lot did.

Crowley’s stopping in the middle of his grand, lush garden, the most verdant on this little rock called Great Britain. His gaze shifts to the night sky, to a million little lights shining peacefully. The stars always oddly comforted him, he could never touch them, although he helped to create them, they were an ever-constant pillar in his existence. The stars did not judge, they did not accuse they did not lie to him or made promises no one kept, they did not want him to tempt humans – they were just beautiful to look at. 

“ _Stars when you shine, you know how I feel_ ,” he starts but hesitates. His voice is rusty, but he wants to sound like a trumpet. Like a herald blasting out his message until the Almighty heard him. “ _Scent of the pine, you know how I feel._ ” He takes a deep breath, gathers his bravery. He has to get this numbing pain off his chest.  
He was neither occult nor ethereal. He was a supernatural being on Earth. No rule of Heaven did bind him anymore. He stopped the Apocalypse. He fooled the forces Up and Down. He had found peace and love.

So, if he wants to sing, he will sing. He will bloody sing until dogs bark and the neighbors wake up and …

“ _Oh freedom_ ”, he picks up the volume, lets out all of his suppressed emotions, “ _is mine!_ ”

Head has fallen aback, Crowley shouts to Heaven above and Hell downstairs. The melody captures him, like electricity pulsing through him, he was stretched almost to his breaking point but feels elated, strong, determined. “ _And I know how I feel._ ”

A click indicates the back door of the cottage opening but Crowley pretends not to notice. He ignores the soft steps that approach him.

“ _It's a new dawn! It's a new day!”_ Fervor swells in his voice, he sounds loud and clear, almost as lovely as the angel he used to be. Yet, six thousand years of experiences and emotions are giving him the strength to draw out every note perfectly imperfectly _. “It's a new life! It’s a new life!_ ”  
Suddenly, Aziraphale slips behind him, enveloping him into a warm, comfortable embrace. Crowley still wonders how he survived millennia of touch starvation when he absorbs everything now. Every caress, every stroking, every gentle, almost unintended brush of fingers Aziraphale offers him gladly.

“ _For meeee!_ ” Crowley sings at the top of his lungs. His choice. His life. His decisions. His freedom. But not alone anymore. No regrets anymore. No holding back.

Just he and his angel.

Aziraphale mouthes butterfly kisses onto his neck, not disturbing his song. But Crowley hears the silent endearment that would have slipped his angel’s lips nevertheless. Darling. My dear. My love. That’ all Crowley needs to be, needs to define himself. They‘re together, all soft around the edges, rough and wrangled after thousands of years, scars hidden deep down – but still, they complement each other.

They’re on their own. Crowley wouldn’t want it any other way. “ _And I'm feelin good._ ”  


**Author's Note:**

> * Yes, excuse me, I love Adorabelle Dearheart to bits. But it’s freely quoted since I’ve read the book in my mother tongue. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are love. :)


End file.
